


It's Beginning To Smell A Lot Like Christmas

by Fledhyris



Series: Omega Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam Winchester, Beta Jessica Moore, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Gen, No Smut, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Dean Winchester, Pheromones, Pining, Pre-Slash, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Timestamp, this story is really about Sam and Dean not about Jessica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:23:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledhyris/pseuds/Fledhyris
Summary: Sam discovers his signature alpha scent while Christmas shopping with Jessica. Of course, he wants to tell Dean.Part of my Omega 'verse Wincest series.I deliberately left writing about Sam's signature until a more appropriate season because - well, you'll find out!
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore & Sam Winchester
Series: Omega Verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1379326
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	It's Beginning To Smell A Lot Like Christmas

It’s Sam’s second Christmas at Stanford, but this year, he won’t have to spend it alone. This year, he has Jessica. He likes her a lot, and when she finally decided that nothing would ever happen unless she asked him out, saying yes was a no-brainer. She’s smart, and beautiful, and funny, and independent; and best of all, she’s Typical, so he can bury his nose in her hair and smell nothing but the artificial scent of her shampoo, and not have to think about that whole side of his biology that he’d rather forget. 

Jess has dragged him out Christmas shopping, and although he has nobody else to buy for, he’s enjoying it far more than he expected. There’s a German Christmas market and it’s thronged with happy, excited people. The stalls are filled with all kinds of interesting things: toys, and decorations to suit a colder season than their bright California sunshine; clothes and tableware; all sorts of foods ranging from savoury sausage and roast pork to strudel and marzipan. Each stall is draped with lights ready for nightfall and artificial snow, and a band is playing further down the market. The sounds, colours and delicious smells all vie with one another for his attention, lifting his spirits. It’s like nothing he ever experienced with Dad and Dean, it’s all so normal and cheerful - so human. It’s easy to forget, here, that monsters really exist.

He strolls around in a contented daze, his arm around Jessica, drinking it all in. They find a drinks tent and enjoy hot spiced chocolate, swirling an actual chunk of chocolate on a stick in hot milk until it melts. Every little thing is new to Sam, and his exclamations delight Jess, who seems to think he’s some kind of country rustic she needs to take under her wing. He doesn’t disabuse her of the notion; has no intention of explaining that he’d seen more of America in the first decade of his life than most folks see in a lifetime. None of it was this America, this wonderful human cacophony of joyful innocence, abuzz with life and hope. His past life and his present are as different as night and day, and the contrast helps him to repress everything he left behind.

Eventually they come to a stall selling scented candles and Jess pulls him to a stop. The labels are tiny and handwritten in a florid style that’s hard to make out, so they make a game of it, selecting candles at random and sniffing, comparing their thoughts before they check to see who’s right. Sam’s good at this, his alpha nose coming in handy to analyse the myriad scents, and Jess jokingly protests that he’s cheating. Sam picks up another candle and inhales, and _oh._ The smell hits him like a sucker punch to the gut. The tang of apples and the sweetness of cinnamon. He stands there, mesmerised, pulling in the scent like a man thirsting in a desert, and everything around him, even Jess, fades into the background. All he can think of is his brother, his flashing smile, his bright green eyes. He misses him so badly.

“Hey,” Jess pats his cheek, pulling him gently from his reverie. “What’s that one you’ve got there? Is it good? You look like you’ve found ambrosia.”

Wordlessly, Sam passes her the candle, and she takes an appreciative sniff. “Mmm, apples! And something spicy - is that cinnamon?” She chuckles. “What is it with you and apples, Sam? You eat them like most people go for candy.” 

Sam smiles at her and drops a kiss on the top of her golden head. “I just really like apples,” he says. “They’re healthy, much better than candy.” He can’t tell her, it’s not something she ever needs to know, that he has been sense-locked into his brother’s signature since he was barely into double digits. He’s trying, he really is, and although he knows it would probably help to find another omega, to lose himself in their scent, it’s the one concession he makes for himself; he’ll give Dean up but he won’t ever replace him.

“It’s a good scent for Christmas, shall I get these?” Jess asks.

Sam shakes his head, his smile slipping. If Jess burns these in her apartment the smell will cling to her and remind him, and he can’t. “Might be risky,” he jokes. “You come to see me smelling of apples and I might accidentally eat you!” He pantomimes devouring her, mouthing at the sensitive spot on her neck until she’s almost shrieking with giggles; the distraction works, and she puts the candle back when he lets her go.

They find an orange candle next, but it’s paired with cloves, and that just reminds him of Dad. His stomach clenches again, this time with resentment. They both pushed him away, but he’s sure he could have brought Dean around, if it hadn’t been for Dad. Their father’s opinions were instrumental to their separation. Jess is starting to look concerned and he feels guilty, he hates that all these sense associations are spoiling their shopping trip. But Typical though she may be, Jess is intelligent, and perceptive.

“Is this an alpha thing, Sam?” she questions, tipping up her head to look searchingly into his eyes. “Are the smells bothering you? I don’t need to get candles, come on, we can go…”

“No, it’s fine,” he assures her with a grateful smile. “Let’s keep looking, just - we’ll avoid the fruit ones, if that’s okay?” 

She squeezes his arm and stands on tiptoe to administer a quick peck on his cheek. Most of the fruit scented candles are brightly coloured, easy to spot, and she moves on to a cluster of plainer candles, creamy white.

“Oh, Sam!” she exclaims after sniffing the candle in her hand. She grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him down, sniffing hard at his neck. “This one smells like you, I’m sure of it! What is that, what cologne do you use?”

“I don’t,” Sam murmurs, staring at the candle. “Alphas don’t, we don’t like to mask our signature…” He takes the candle from Jess and sniffs it, curiosity piqued. She’s right, it does smell like him, his spicy top-note that comes out when he’s emotionally aroused. That’s probably why she could smell him just now, even though she’s Typical; his pheromones swirling up, reacting to the candles from before. The thing is, Sam doesn’t know the name of his own scent. He knows his base-note, coffee to Dean’s apple and their dad’s cedar; but while Dad and Dean’s spice-notes are familiar, redolent of any bakery, Sam’s has always been elusive. There are so many scents in nature, and he’s not been mature for long enough to check against all the less common possibilities.

He savours the candle now, realising that they could be on the cusp of a revelation, here. It’s a musky sort of spice, sweet and earthy, and for some reason he can’t quite pin down he associates it suddenly with cathedrals, and the times they stayed with Pastor Jim as children. 

“What does the label say?” he asks Jessica, a thrill of anticipation dispelling the sadness that has infected his mood since finding the apple candles.

She leans over the display counter, peering at the looping script. It’s a long word, the letters cramped together on the too-small label. “Some kind of incense, I think that says…” she mutters; “I can’t quite make it out, is that an S or an F..?”

Sam leans down beside her, pressing their cheeks together. “Frankincense!” he whispers, awestruck. No wonder none of them had placed his scent before. 

Jess squeals and hugs him. “Ooh, get you!” she laughs, delighted. “That’s one of the gifts they brought for baby Jesus, it’s a rare and precious perfume. Sam, you actually smell of Christmas, how perfect is that?”

He laughs and hugs her to him, one-armed. “So you want to get these, have your apartment smell like me 24/7?” he teases.

“Why not?” she responds, happily. “Better than the usual guy smells of farts and stinky socks. I guess it’s handy when your boyfriend’s an alpha - knew there was some reason I was attracted to you, Winchester.”

She picks out three fat candles and hands them to the stall owner to wrap in coloured tissue paper. Sam’s mood has lifted thoroughly with the discovery. Lots of people go through life unable to place their signature scent exactly, but it’s nice to put a name to his, and the exotic nature of it makes him smile. He wants to tell Dean, and suddenly, he thinks he ought to write his brother a Christmas card. If he sends it to Pastor Jim, and one for him too of course, he’ll call and they’ll be able to pick it up next time they’re in the area. He thinks he should probably write one for Dad, too. Tis the season, and all. Even if they do get them late. While he’s at it, he’ll send one to ‘Uncle’ Bobby.

“C’mon,” he tells Jess excitedly, “there’s a Christmas card stall over there I want to check out.”

Jess enjoys helping him pick out cards from the selection, hand painted by a local artist, fanciful landscapes of white topped pines and snow covered cottages, the idyll of the collective human imagination. The one he chooses for Dean is a night sky filled with an equal mix of stars and whirling snowflakes, silvery and delicate like fractals of lace. One big star dominates the centre, shining fiercely, the Star of Bethlehem. It reminds him of Dean, who has always been Sam’s star, his guiding light. They often used to sit out at night, on the roof of the car, and Dean would point out the constellations and make up wonderful, silly stories about the characters they represented. None of the stories, Sam reflects, were about two brothers forced apart by the compulsive attraction of alpha to omega. Sam is drawn to Dean as the wise men were drawn by the star, he can’t help it; it’s the primal core of his nature, irresistible as gravity. He understands why he had to leave; doesn’t make him like it any better.

They go back to the drinks tent, where there are rough wooden tables, and churros to take the edge off their appetite. Jess helpfully supplies a pen; Sam doesn’t know any women hunters but from the wonders secreted in Jessica’s purse, he figures they’d be extraordinary, always having the right weapon or ingredient to hand in a crisis. He pens three of the cards off quickly: a simple seasonal greeting for Jim, a few more lines to Bobby, telling him how he’s doing at college. He asks Dad if they’re doing okay, says he’s fine, studying hard. Can’t bring himself to mention Jess, though a small, bitter part of him wants to rub it in their faces, show Dean that he’s moved on. Dad would be pleased. 

Finally it’s Dean’s turn. ‘Found my signature at last!’ he writes. “No wonder we couldn’t place it, not a common spice. You’re not gonna believe this, Dean - it’s frankincense! You know, as in gold, frankincense and myrrh? Guess that makes me the wiser man after all ;) No jokes about mangers or cattle sheds now! Take care of yourself, Dean - know I don’t have to ask if you’re taking care of Dad. Always, your (not so) little brother.’

He sits and stares at the card for a long moment, thinking of everything he can’t say, wondering if Dean will read between the lines and understand anyway. Jess is quiet, sympathetic; he hasn’t told her much but she knows he’s estranged from his family, that things were difficult between them and he had to leave. Sometimes he thinks she guesses more than she lets on. 

There’s something missing from the card, he thinks; it’s too impersonal, looks too much like he really has moved on, like he doesn’t care. On a sudden inspiration, he asks Jess if he can borrow one of her candles, rubs the base of it vigorously all over the inside of Dean’s card. “Remind him what frankincense actually smells like,” he explains, and she seems satisfied with that; doesn’t comprehend the nuance of his alpha behaviour, marking the card up with his scent, claiming the recipient. When Dean opens it, he’ll get a noseful of his little brother, and hopefully miss him at least momentarily as much as Sam misses him.

Jess picks it up curiously, with a glance for his permission, and sniffs. “Wow, that’s pretty strong, it should work,” she smiles. 

He just wishes he could add coffee, but a soaking would ruin the card and anything less would probably fade by the time Dean gets this, if he ever does.

He writes out the addresses from memory, Dad and Dean’s cards care of Pastor Jim, and they head off to post them. Duty done, Sam does his best to shrug off the whole affair, concentrating on being the good, attentive boyfriend as he treats Jess to dinner at the little bistro they both like. Not as though he’ll hear back from his family to find out Dean’s reaction, so better to put it from his mind altogether. Christmas this year is going to be all about him and Jess, and he already bought her gift, a silver charm bracelet inlaid with cats eye gemstones. He’s determined to put his past life behind him as much as possible; he’s sure Dean is doing the same and he already half regrets sending the card, but it’s done now, for better or worse.

* * *

Not long after he’s reunited with his brother, Sam is looking for something in the glove box of the Impala and his subconscious is arrested by the corner of a red envelope. He pulls it out; it’s addressed to Dean, care of Pastor Jim, in his own handwriting. He suddenly remembers what it is; trembling a little, he pulls out the card and opens it. He notices something odd in a gleam of reflected light and looks more closely. The waxy sheen on the thin cardboard looks scratched to hell, and he feels a nervous jolt, wondering what on earth Dean has been doing with the card. It doesn’t seem to be damaged though, just worn. He lifts it to his nose to sniff, noting that the smell has faded with time and he can barely make it out. He scores the wax with the edge of his thumbnail to release the chemical scent, and it suddenly hits him, and he smiles - that’s why the card is so scratched and battered. Dean has done this himself, many times before. He’s kept the card as a treasured memento, safe here in his Baby, ready to hand any time he’s missed his brother and wanted a reminder of his scent.

Sam puts the card back into its envelope and pushes it back under the accumulated bric a brac. It’s enough to know that Dean got his message, and appreciated it; he doesn’t need to bring it up. He might not have him the way he’s truly always wanted, but at least they’re together again. He’s just sorry for how much it’s taken to push their paths back into alignment; as though their course has been ordained by Heaven, and fate was punishing them for each step taken away from one another’s side. He vows now that no matter what happens, even if; when; they find Dad, he won’t let them push him away again.


End file.
